


The Art Of War

by Rigel99



Series: To Be a Quartermaster [8]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: A Job Well Done, M/M, Sexual Tension, Undercover Missions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-27
Updated: 2016-05-07
Packaged: 2018-06-04 20:36:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6674647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rigel99/pseuds/Rigel99
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If 007 uses actual strategy to achieve his goals? That fact is lost on his Quartermaster.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

“What are you reading?”

The cover looked old, faded and worn. Q couldn’t make out the title. Probably couldn’t even make it out up close. To be honest, Q never thought of James as much of a scholar. Man of action and all that. Which suited him just fine.

James didn’t lift his eyes from the book when he responded. “Sun Tzu. The Art of War,” he murmured.

Well there was an opening. And Arthur Clifton could never resist an opening, especially when it was gift-wrapped by the agent.

He dropped his messenger bag and shrugged off his coat, placing both on an armchair while scooping George up into his arms and heading towards the kitchen. He didn’t look at James when he nonchalantly replied. “Really. Bit refined for you. You being more a smash-and-grab kind of chap, hmm?” Somehow, he managed to feign a serious tone. That ought to get Bond’s attention.

Of course it did.

When he dragged his head out of his fridge and turned around, James was standing right behind him.

He dropped the milk.

And the cat.

And while the latter - much like the man now standing a foot apart from him, a challenging expression playing across his features - was rather adept at landing on his feet, the former didn’t have any appendages to save itself from splattering across the floor and painting the surface white. George helped himself and Charles was quick to join the party.

“Are you implying one of the finest Double-O’s on Her Majesty’s payroll is some kind of international thug, Quartermaster?” James enquired in a silken smooth tone of voice, an unmistakeable tone that broached no resistance. In the long run anyway.

Q took a step back, his body colliding flat with the fridge door, just as James took a step forward. “Have you read the text, Q?”

“Yes.”

“Mmmm. Then you are well aware that the finer points as Master Sun describes them can be applied to most life situations.” James took another small step forward and reached up to remove Q’s glasses.

“Can they indeed.”

James folded the glasses and placed them on top of the fridge, keeping his gaze locked with Q’s.

“Indeed. You should also be well aware that my “smash-and-grab” technique is a mere disguise to throw the enemy off and keep concealed my real talents and hidden depths…”

He placed his hands on either side of Q’s head and leaned closer, admiring the steady composure months of being intimate together had brought to Q’s veneer. Not that he was easily ruffled in his professional guise, but James absolutely loved how they could draw out and build the tension between them, testing each other’s limits, teasing until either man, or more usually both simultaneously, broke and the dam of pent up passion was released.

Their professional relationship was slowly becoming tantric while the frenzied lovemaking in which they indulged as much and as often as their schedules would allow seemed to be dizzying in its singular intensity.

This was the kind of war James relished. The kind of war that brought his Quartermaster to his knees in submission, surrendering to the ardent desire that pulsed through them both for each other.

This particular dance had begun 72 hours previously, and judging from where James was standing now, lips pressed hungry and demanding against Q’s own, pinned and pliant by the agent’s body against his fridge door, it was going to end exactly where they both had planned.

Exhausted limbs wrapped around each other’s body in post-mission, sweat-soaked satisfaction in celebration of a job well done.

You’re welcome, Your Majesty…


	2. Initial Estimations

**72 hours previously…**

_“There’s nothing here, Sir.”_

“What do you mean there’s nothing there, 007? You said your intel was sound.”

_“It was, Sir. My best guess is that they knew we were coming.”_

“Guesses hardly inspire me with confidence, Bond,” M growled down the comms. “Find something to get us back on track. You’re banned from England until you do.”

_“Yes M.”_

“Carry on, Q.” M stepped away from Q’s station, nodding at the man before strolling out of Q Branch.

Q gave a curt, polite nod in response. “Sir.”

He watched M’s retreating back before turning his attention back to Bond. “Looks like dinner will have to wait, 007.”

 _“Not to worry Q. Where you are concerned, I thrive on the anticipation,”_ he jested, though Q knew the agent well enough now to hear the barest thread of frustration in the cadence of his words. _“But if I don’t find what we need in less than 72 hours, I may as well take early retirement.”_

Q scoffed. “Forgive my cynicism, Bond. But the thought of you in a pipe and slippers—“

 _“And nothing else?”_ he quipped.

“Not what I was thinking,” sighed Q, “but thank you so much for that mental image. I’m sure it will sustain me until you get back.”

_“Do something for me Q?”_

“I will not tell you what I’m wear—“

 _“You don’t have to. I generally imagine you naked anyway.”_ Q rolled his eyes but kept silent. _“That’s usually enough to sustain me,”_ Bond said, but before they got carried away with their usual banter, _“feed the cats that squirrel-flavoured food they love so much?”_

Q paused his rapid typing. “I… will… They are quite partial to a bit of squirrel,” he replied ever-so-cautiously.

_“Drives them nuts I’d say. 007 out.”_

Anyone listening to the conversation would have put the exchange down to the usual diatribe in which the two indulged. Q and Bond however, in the intervening months of their growing and shared intimacy had developed a type of verbal code that no one other than they could interpret. Sometimes fun, sometimes serious. The conclusion of this particular conversation concealed something very, very serious indeed.

There was a mole at the heart of the SIS.

* * *

**72 hours later….Back in the kitchen**

“Weren’t we going to have dinner?” Q breathed. Once Bond had relinquished Q’s tongue from his own mouth, he’d stopped counting the stars behind his eyelids in an effort to focus his mind and maintain some pretence of the control and decorum that befitted his station in life.

“Do I provide such distraction that you hadn’t noticed that I am presently engaged in laying the table?” Bond said with casual indifference while pulling Q’s jumper over his head in one smooth move.

And yes. Somehow, Bond had managed to manoeuvre them smoothly across the kitchen so that Q’s pert little backside was currently resting on the table, Bond pressed comfortably between his thighs, the familiar hardness between them waking Q’s own arousal gently with unhastened ease.

Or the calm before the storm, as Q had come to label the buildup to their mutual release.

“Remember when you saved my life in Venice? And I came back to London expecting you to fall into my arms at the mercy of my legendary powers of seduction?” James’ voice barely concealed the emotion he was feeling as he pushed Q’s shirt from his shoulders and tossed it to the floor. He grabbed his waist gently and pulled him close and immediately down on his back, giving his attention over to tracing a tongue gently over smooth skin.

“I remember,” Q said, resting back on his elbows to watch the agent. “As I recall—!” James nipped his hipbone and Q felt the nerves in his spine tingle up to the base of his skull.

He collected himself. Briefly. “As I recall,” feeling all of James’ move up and over him, “you were grossly incorrect in your initial estimations regarding my attraction to you.”

“I wasn’t. You were simply in denial. You won the battle. But I won the war,” Bond said, before descending his lips against Q’s to stifle any response. _Bastard._

Q was almost too far gone in body but he could still muster the necessary control of his mind to taunt Bond. 

He pushed him by the shoulders, Bond permitting the move and pulling his lips away. Composure calm but for the stormy lust betrayed by his eyes. “I may have surrendered in the final attack, but now that I’m a permanent fixture in your territory, I make the rules.” Bond pushed back then burying his face in his hair. “And don’t I know it…” he said, Q feeling the smile playing on the lips against his head.

Bond inhaled deeply before pulling away slightly, eyes bright with desire and love while moving to rest his hips between Q’s thighs. “I believe one of those rules to be, Divide and Conquer?”

_Absolutely fucking insatiable…_


	3. Waging War

**60 hours earlier…**

At one time of his life, James Bond may have been considered adorable and innocent enough to be regarded angelic. But those were the bygone days of a long since lost youth. Given the nature of his work and the sacrifices he had resigned himself to making for the rest of his life, he never even considered that the man he had become would be fortunate enough to love and be loved again in return.

And heaven help the forces in this world or the next that attempted to deprive him of that.

Standing above the cowering man, his Walther trained at his head, he could still be considered an angel, albeit of the avenging, deadly variety.

“We are everywhere, Bond. White told you as much. Did you doubt him? Didn’t even the death of his daughter in front of your own eyes convince you? The death of your precious M?”

Bond kept silent. He’d looked men about to die in the eye often enough to know that silence was sometimes the best way to extract the truth and the necessary facts.

“You couldn’t protect her. You can’t protect him. Eventually, we’ll get him. We are very, very patient and you won’t be round forever. Once Blofeld gives the word… That’s it for you. Then, he’s OURS for the taking. Plastow may have failed, but he demonstrated one thing.”

“Oh really? And what’s that?” Bond asked, feigning disinterest.

MI6’s Quartermaster is difficult to reach, but not impossible,” he stated through a feral grin.

 _I’m going to enjoy killing this arsehole when I’m done,_ he thought to himself. “Blofeld can’t even take a shit without the powers keeping him under lock and key analysing it.”

The man simply smiled. A knowing smile. Bond’s eyes narrowed dangerously.

“You did deprive us of Silva after all. Well, sooner than we wanted rid of him. The fool was obsessed with his revenge. Even Blofeld couldn’t control him.”

“And you deprived us of Olivia Mansfield. An eye for an eye and all that,” replied Bond, steady as the gun pressing against his captive’s temple.

“Life is full of regrets isn’t it, Mr Bond? Bet you wish you’d pulled that trigger on the bridge when you had the chance.”

“You can’t have him. You won’t take him. And I will destroy anyone who tries.”

“Possessive much, Mr Bond?”

Bond ignored him. “You have someone on the inside. Who?”

“Follow the Yellow Brick Road, Dorothy. We’ll met you there at the Emerald City,” he crooned.

Bond frowned. “What the bloody hell does that even mean?” He cocked his gun. “Just give me a name…”

In that moment he watched his captive eyes go wide and he collapsed forward at Bond’s feet. Suicide pill. _Bollocks_ , Bond thought to himself, _didn’t even get to send him on his merry bloody way._ Another dead end. Literally.

Bond holstered his gun and stepped over the body. He switched on his earpiece. “Q.”

“Here, 007.”

“Looks like we’re not in Kansas any more,” he murmured.

* * *

**Back in the kitchen**

Q grabbed James’ chin and gave him a serious stare. The kind of stare he reserved for minions who didn’t meet his performance standards and Double-O’s who ignored his instructions when on mission.

“Don’t pull that shit again, Bond.”

Bond just returned the look with a lopsided smirk. “Pulling rank, Quartermaster?”

 _Smug tosser._ “You bet your backside I am.”

“Mmmm. I’ll take that bet… and raise you. Yours,” he growled, grabbing his behind and grinding his hips down with decisive force.

“And just so we’re clear on the shit I’d readily pull to keep you safe, Arthur, I’d _burn_ the world for my Quartermaster,” he growled against his throat.

_Fuck…_

“And— and I’d l-let you,” Q all but stuttered out, his mind rapidly losing itself and descending into the haze that was Bond’s desire. The pull of his want was indescribable. “Though only to rebuild it in your image, you beautiful fucking bastard,” he managed.

“Agent and Quartermaster against the world it is,” Bond stated decisively, before hauling himself off Q’s body, grabbing his wrist and hoisting him over his shoulder.

“But first,” he stated matter-of-factly, “you have a date between a rock and a hard place starting with your mattress and ending with you screaming my name.”


	4. Attack By Strategem

_Follow the Yellow Brick Road._

Bond ruminated on his target’s last words as he pulled his car away from the small airstrip not far from Heathrow to head to Vauxhall. It was a tease. Bond was under no illusions about that. SPECTRE spent most of its time laying false trails and casting shadows of nothing. It was however, the only lead he had right now, and he intended to follow it up. Besides, there was something about the way his captive had delivered his little cryptic. Bond couldn’t shake the smile the man had given him before biting into his cyanide capsule. A kind of fuck you MI6, I’ll throw you a bone for the pleasure of knowing you’ll never know what to do it.

He hit speed-dial on his dashboard.

_“This is Moneypenny.”_

“Hello there, Beautiful. Miss your favourite agent?”

_“Every day I don’t see you, James, is like a stab to my heart.”_

Bond smiled. “Don’t let Q hear you thinking of me in such fond terms. He might hack your phone and plant something incriminating in your search history.”

_“Your toyboy loves me almost as much as he loves you, James.”_

“Straight to the heart of the matter, Moneypenny. That’s exactly why I’m calling. I’m an hour from Six. Can you set up a meeting with M for when I get there?”

_“Sounds serious.”_

“Just my usual shenanigans, my dear. Nothing to get excited about,” he said with typical Bond coyness.

_“I’ll advise accordingly.”_

“Wonderful. You’re an angel.”

_“Think plenty of it, James. I don’t clear M’s schedule for just any agent, you know.”_

“Were I just any agent,” he shot back coolly before cutting her off.

Traffic was good, not that Bond would have allowed that to stand in his way. He focussed on the issue at hand. If there was a mole in MI6 and Bond’s gut was telling him there was, he had to follow even the remotest lead. Q was on the trail as well so if there was something to be found, he knew his savvy little technogeek would uncover it. A mole meant there was someone within arms length of his Quartermaster. If he told Q that he was a target, it might drive the insider to ground and they would be none the wiser as to who it was. They had to let he (or she) believe their cover was intact and they remained undetected. Bond, normally immune to the requirements of the job, felt a quiver glide down his spine.

The last time he had allowed someone he cared for to be bait hadn’t ended well.

First things first. He’d get back to London and orchestrate a strategic plan of attack with the one person he could trust besides Q to smoke out the snake in the grass. And worry about keeping Q in the dark later.

* * *

**Back in Q’s home**

“James!” Q huffed out, the air knocked from his lungs landing heavily on the bed. “You have absolutely no regard for the chain of command in this relationship and no respect for your superiors.”

“I thought you enjoyed a little manhandling Q,” replied Bond, peeling off his own jumper and tossing it across the room. “Besides. I feel I’m owed a little extra compensation based on my spectacular performance today.”

“The only thing spectacular about that performance was how you convinced M to play along,” he replied, moving to sit upwards, only to have Bond collide into him and pin him by his upper arms to the mattress.

“Don’t underestimate my ability to strategise when the situation demands, Q. Just because in the field I seem to effortlessly fly by the seat of my pants.”

“Except most of the time you aren’t wearing any p—!” Q bucked his hips up in an effort to throw the agent of balance but he was having none of that.

“And now’s your chance to thank me properly by helping me out of mine.”

“I’m not finished hating you yet, Bond,” he grumbled.

“I should certainly hope so,” replied James calmly while reaching to undo Q’s belt. “Take your time. I’ve got all night to make you fall in love with me all over again,” he whispered against his ear, the resulting shiver his breath causing a delicious counterpoint to the heat pumping through their bodies.

 _Despicable, shameless, gorgeous,_ thought Q distractedly. _Do your worst, James._


	5. Positioning

Moneypenny glared curiously at the door to M’s office. 007 had returned from mission and went straight to Mallory circumventing Q Branch and Medical. Of course, he’d flashed his usually devastating glance her way and thanked her for making space for him in M’s diary. She was vaguely wondering if she could get away with bugging M’s office. Maybe not. Whatever they were discussing, she’d never known Bond to stay longer than ten minutes in a debrief. So a debrief it wasn’t. She was musing on the possibilities when the office door opened and Bond strolled out.

“M’s Scotch decanter is in need of a refill, Moneypenny,” he said casually, not pausing in his move towards the door to her outer office.

“Drained it dry, did you?” she asked nonchalantly, rising from her desk.

He poked his head back around the door before closing it. “Alas, not this time, more’s the pity.” And on that cryptic note he left,just as M made his presence felt.

“Miss Moneypenny?”

“Sir.”

“I need you to do a little digging for me. On the QT.”

 _Maybe my curiosity will be satisfied,_ she thought to herself. “Of course, M.”

“Yellow Brick Road.”

Moneypenny gave him a confused look. “Wizard of Oz?”

M rolled his eyes. “This isn’t a psych eval and we’re not playing word association,” he huffed, gently chastising.

“Sorry Sir.”

“Any, all references to Yellow Brick Road associated with intelligence operations, military, SPECTRE. I want it all. On my desk before close of business today.”

“Of course, M. I’ll get right on that.”

“Excellent,” he said. “But first…”

“Scotch. Decanter,” she said with a smile, turning to the storage cupboard opposite her desk. “I’ll get right on that too.”

He headed back to his desk, leaving the door open. “What would I do without you, Eve.” It wasn’t a question.

* * *

Q sighed. “What would I do without you, my lovely assistant?” Q sighed at the sound of the click of his tea mug hitting the metal surface of his workstation. He didn’t break from his task as he reached for his beveraged lifeline.

“I prefer to think of things you do _with_ me.”

Bond.

Never let it be said that the Quartermaster’s professional veneer wasn’t entirely stalwart when in the sanctity of own domain. Gorgeous distractions aside.

Q turned around and allowed his gaze to hover over his throat, grazing across his torso while he folded his arms. “007. I hope the tea isn’t your way of trying to appease me in advance of some devastating revelation with regard to the state of your equipment.”

“My equipment is in perfect working order, Q.”

“Quite. Well, I’ll be the judge of that. Let’s head to the armoury and give it a once over, shall we?”

Tempting as the offer sounded, the prospect of a few minutes alone with Arthur had to be resisted. Q was always good at prising him open and he couldn’t risk him chinking his armour as usually happened in their intimate moments shared in close quarters.

Bantering his way through the situation however, was something he could do.

He plonked the case on Q’s desk. “Not today darling. Bit of a headache. Off to Medical.”

Q’s eyebrows threatened to get lost in the Bermuda Triangle that was his mop of waves.

“See you this evening?” Bond said, turning away with little more than a cursory glance.

 _Bloody right you will, Bond._ Q didn’t give Bond the satisfaction of a verbal reply, turning his attention back to his lines of code.

* * *

**Meanwhile, in M’s office…**

“Well, there’s all the popular cultural references, Sir,” said Moneypenny, “but only one that stands out as having any remotely military connotations.”

“Yes?”

'Peekskill Academy'. It was a military academy for young men and women, founded in 1833, located in Peekskill, New York. A yellow brick road made of Dutch pavers used to lead from the steamboat dock to the academy…”

M pursed his lips and assumed a thoughtful expression.

“I can practically hear the cogs turning, Sir.”

“Mmm. Peekskill rings a bell. It’s still fresh in my mind given I’ve only recently familiarised myself with the files of all MI6 staffers." He tapped a few buttons on his keyboard and summoned the employee files of Q Branch and hit search. There it was.

Q’s PA. He attended the now Peekskill High School for a brief period while his parents travelled aboard.

M looked at Moneypenny. “Where’s 007?”

“On his way to Medical and Q Branch.”

“Get him on the line.”

* * *

A brief bantering dalliance in the corridor with 008 had delayed Bond en route to Medical. He shook him off by agreeing to a showdown later on the shooting range. Continuing on their way, both their mobiles pinged and Bond immediately answered.

“M.”

He listened for approximately 30 seconds.

“Understood,” he replied brusquely. He hung up and smiled. They had their man. Now to dispatch the traitorous bastard.

* * *

**Later that evening, Q’s residence**

“You have to be the singularly most infuriating person I’ve ever met,” Q whispered. “You could have told me that the mole was one of my very own, out to snare the Quartermaster.”

Bond was currently focussed on massaging Q’s back, his touches firm but light. Q often contemplated his ability to do that. One of the agents many addictive qualities.

“And what would that have achieved, Arthur? You, boffin that you are, know all too well that once we actively observe we change the nature of the thing we are observing. He was a SPECTRE agent. Trained. Skilled. You, my precious little geek, are nothing of the kind in that particular arena of espionage. He would have known that you knew almost immediately and that would have placed you in unpredictable danger.”

Bond had gradually worked his way down to the small of Q’s back, arguably one of his favourite spots, one that could curve as gracefully as it could hollow, depending on Bond’s proximity at any given moment. “We maintained the upper hand, and kept you safe. Job done.”

Q merely huffed and mumbled something into his pillow.

Bond flipped him over onto his back beneath him. “What was that, Arthur?”

“I said, I can bloody well take care of myself,” looking a little put out that he had been kept out the loop.

“Of course you can. But when I get so much pleasure from taking care of you, would you really deprive your favourite agent of said pleasure?” 

Q appeared to mull over that comment for a moment. “Let me up please, James? Bathroom.”

Bond unstraddled himself and sat back against the headboard, watching Q retreat. _Well_ , he thought to himself with a smile, _no time like the present to bring out the big guns…_


	6. Variation of Tactics

Q stepped out of the bathroom a few minutes later, running his fingers through his hair. He looked towards the bed and was momentarily confused to see it empty.

“It’s been a week since we’ve been together. And needless to say today took its toll.” A voice from one of the darker corners of the room softly spoke before stepping into the dim London streetlight cast through the bedroom window.

All Q could do was stare.

He approached the agent slowly, all thoughts of their previous albeit minor disagreement practically forgotten. He stepped close to James and reached out to run a long finger in a reverent caress between the soft leather and the firm muscle nestled between James' pectoral and shoulder joint.

“I thought you might need cheering up,” Bond said, a small, knowing smile playing on the corner of his lips.

“And what better way to do that than showcase some of my favourite weapons on arguably the most flattering pedestal owned by the SIS?”

He brought his eyes up to meet James’. “You once said to me that I’d be the death of you. I think you should recant that statement,” Arthur said quietly, voice hoarse with barely restrained lust.

Bond didn’t move a muscle, save for measured breaths, allowing Arthur to circle him and commit the sight to memory.

James was completely naked save for a few very appealing additions. On his left ankle was strapped his favourite knife, a gift from Q that fit his grip perfectly, balanced just the way James liked it for both close combat and throwing if the situation demanded such a response. Q allowed his gaze to travel up the back of James’ calves and smiled at the modified weapon from the Tel Aviv blueprints strapped to the outer side of his right thigh. Black metal, reflecting grey in the dim light. Q took position quietly behind the agent and ran the tips of his fingers up his spine to trace the line of the holster across his back in which was comfortably nestled his Walther PPK. Q took a deep levelling breath. _Talk about making a personal statement,_ he thought to himself.

Bond, to his credit, had remained still, the only betrayal of response in the skin Q deigned to touch. Arthur reached around across his chest and withdrew the gun from its home. James took a deep breath, trusting him but fighting every conditioned instinct to respond being divested of his weapon. Q proceeded to trail the cool muzzle of the gun across James’ torso, bringing it to rest flat on the skin between his naval and his crotch.

Q ran his free hand down along the underside of the hot, hard muscle pressed and ready against his weapon-holding hand.

Pushing soft, light kisses across his shoulder blades, Q finally spoke. “Do you have any idea how perfect you are?” he breathed softly into sweat-sheened skin. James placed a hand over the one holding the gun.

“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. And you might be slightly biased, Quartermaster.”

Q circled in front of him again, placing the Walther on the table next to where they stood. He knelt down and unbuckled the knife and the modified TA weapon, placing both carefully next to the Walther. He didn’t resist the look of adoration he felt reflected in Bond’s bright blue eyes while running his fingers through Bond’s hair. Gripping the shoulder leathers of the holster, he dragged him backwards towards the reclining chaise longue by the window.

“Not the bed?” enquired James, following the gentle tug of his Quartermaster unresistingly.

“You’re cheering me up. No end, I might venture to add. It seems only proper a quid pro quo is in order and we employ your gift to my bedroom to its best possible use…”

They turned, allowing Q to push James into a prone position before climbing on top and bracing himself above him. He barely paused in the movement, pushing down to take all the agent had to offer into his body. Of course, Q knew himself and James’ both well enough now to know the various aspects of their sexual and sensual dynamic that would be appreciated most. Such as Q silently preparing himself in the bathroom moments beforehand, unbeknownst to Bond.

The look of surprised pleasure on James’ face when he realised was a rare, beautiful thing indeed.


	7. The Use Of Intelligence

**Earlier that day…**

Q had lost track of time after Bond had left his lair, absorbing himself in a particularly vexing problem in an effort to shake off his irritation at being, well, shaken off. The fact that Bond was heading to Medical in favour of catching a few moments together in the Armoury should have set off several rather deafening alarm bells, the kind that would have given Big Ben a run for his money. Q wrenched his mind from the streams of code in front of him. Something was off. He looked over his shoulder at his immediate subordinates before letting his eyes flit around the rest of the room. His frowning gaze returned to the empty station his assistant usually occupied.

“Where’s Jason?” he asked no one in particular. Several heads swivelled in his direction. Now that he thought about it he hadn’t seen him since he’d sent him off to refresh his tea mug.

“I’m not sure, Sir. Would you like me to call him?”

“No no. No need. I’ll ping him myself,” he said, pulling out his phone. He heard his own message arrive a second later on the phone sitting behind the screen on his assistant’s desk. As far as Q was concerned, the only time his assistant was permitted to be apart from his main means of communication with his boss was in the circumstance of death or kidnapping. As it happened, he was sort of correct in his assertion. He strolled off to seek him out.

* * *

Sometimes a trigger doesn’t need to be pulled.

Sometimes, all it takes is the memory of the soothing sound of his Quartermaster’s voice to remind him of this. To remind him to consider alternative options when circumstances allowed. Q had afforded him that luxury more times than he could now recall. The once overwhelming desire to exercise his license to kill at every available opportunity tempered. At one time in his life, Bond would have taken ruthless pleasure from ridding the world of those who threatened Queen, Country, his way of life. Since that time, Arthur Clifton had shown him that true pleasure could be garnered in other ways. Arthur made him whole again.

Even an old dog can learn new tricks it would seem.

Q turned the corner of the corridor towards the lift to see the back of his assistant, flanked on either side by two agents, namely 007 and 008, Lucas Hemmings.

“Jason?” Q called, the confusion clear in his voice. Both agents opted to ignore the distraction, in full throttle Double-O mode it would seem, which only added another layer of confusion to Q’s mind.

“Jason!”

As they entered the lift and turned to face him, Q stopped dead in his tracks. His wrists were in cuffs and the smile on his face sent a shiver down the Quartermaster’s back.

He tapped his nose with an index finger, the doors sliding slowly shut. His words twisted like a knife in the gut. “Don’t get too comfortable. Little Bombe,” he said, a smirk on his face.

It took most of Bond’s resolve not to punch him in the face.

* * *

**That evening, Q’s residence**

James watched with barely concealed affection while Arthur moved slowly and confidently above him, steadily drawing out wave after wave of mutual pleasure.

Hands glided up Q’s thighs, his waist, his stomach, his chest. Fingers gently ghosted over the bullet wound scar where James had left his indelible mark.

Between laboured and passion-wrenched breaths, Q found his voice, glancing down at the hand. “One way of reminding me I belong to you I suppose…”

Bond’s smile was brief, before Q sank down and rotated his hips, reminding Bond in no uncertain terms that that possession worked both ways.

His eyes were dark. “Well yes, darling. I would so hate for you to forget, especially when I’m away on business,” came the strained response.

“There’s little chance of that ever happening,” Arthur whispered, leaning down and over James’ body, slipping his tongue between parted lips in a vain attempt to recapture the breath stolen from his lungs.

_“Arthur…”_

James tried to reach forward to take Q’s straining length in a firm but trembling hand, but Q denied him, pressing his chest down harder to pin the aching muscle between them. Sensing Bond was close, he permitted himself the feel of James’ ridged, hard torso, the friction relieved by his sweat-sheered skin. It was delicious. Just like James. With aching satisfaction, James exhaled a desperate moan into Arthur’s mouth, followed seconds later by a response in kind from his Quartermaster.

He sat up, leaning his back against James’ thighs rising up to meet him.

“I know what you’re thinking,” breathed Q after a few moments of attempting to stare each other down.

“Oh?”

You’re wondering how you’re going to top that,” he said, reaching behind him to glide warm palms down the back of his thighs.

James just smiled, placing his hands behind his head while watching Arthur lean forward to kiss him again. His eyes stayed open, sparkling with sated desire.

“You’re an intelligent chap,” he said softly against his cheek. “I’m sure you’ll think of something…”

 

**END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I really enjoyed that. I hope you did too, A03ers. Thanks for reading. 
> 
> I promised myself a 00Q AU and my muse is currently haunting me with a Game of Thrones-themed story, in which James is Lord Commander of the Kingsguard and Q is a member of ruling family. We shall have to see if I'm up to that particular challenge! :)


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